Jefferson ran to the ticket clerk, bought a ticket to San Diego.
8
On the sidewalk, girls jumped rope. Jefferson cruised past in his rented sedan, his eyes scanning the parked cars, the doorways, the three Hispanic men standing at the corner liquor store.
He watched behind him in the rearview mirror, then turned right. Continuing around the block, he glanced at every car. A panel truck appeared on the narrow street, the late afternoon sunlight flashing from its blue lacquer. The customized van eased into the narrow driveway of one of the small houses lining the barrio street. A teenager got out.
Jefferson continued his loop. Approaching the apartment house again, he parked and waited. The three men at the liquor store door went their separate ways, one man carrying his six-pack of beer to a truck loaded with a lawn mower and tools, the other two walking away. The four young girls jumping rope continued their game.
Finally, he left the car. He hurried to the entry of the Riveras' apartment house. At the stairs, he stopped and listened to the televisions and voices and footsteps in the old building. A woman laughed behind a door. Applause came from a TV. A toilet flushed. He climbed the stairs silently, easing his weight slowly on the old wood of each step.
He stayed against the hallway wall, sliding his feet along the old linoleum to avoid announcing his approach with footsteps. At the Riveras' door, he stood absolutely still, his back pressed against the wall, listening with his ears and with the flesh of his back.
Nothing moved inside the apartment. Jefferson took a quarter from his pocket and dropped it. The coin rang on the linoleum. It rolled to a stop against the door. Jefferson listened. He heard nothing beyond the door.
Without moving from against the wall, he knocked, rapping his knuckles against the wood three times, hard. The knocks sounded like shots in the quiet hallway. He heard no one inside the apartment.
He tried the knob. It turned. He eased the door open an inch, then shoved it open. Slamming against the wall, the door bounced half-closed. Jefferson eased one eye past the door frame.
Papers with children's writing covered the table. An overturned Styrofoam cup had spilled coffee on the windowsill. Jefferson pushed the door flat against the wall. He peered through the crack between it and the door frame to confirm that no one stood behind the door.
'Senor Rivera! Senora!'
He heard only the sound of cars passing on the street.
9
Weaving through the evening traffic, Jefferson watched the cars around him and behind him. His eyes on the rearview mirror, he almost rear-ended a truck. Brakes screeched as his old Volkswagen rattled to a stop only inches short of a crash. Jefferson felt his hands shaking as he waited for the signal to change.
After returning to San Francisco, he had called the Holt residence. A police officer answered the phone. The officer explained that the police had no reason to suspect kidnapping: David Holt could have simply parked his car and walked away to begin a new life, perhaps with a young woman. The police refused to consider any political or international intrigues until the investigators exhausted every other explanation. The officer suggested Jefferson call the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Jefferson had other priorities. He did not want to disappear also. He would go 'underground.' However, he needed his bankbook, his .38 revolver and the negatives of his photos of the Salvadorans in Miami. He would chance a stop at his apartment.
Strolling couples and shoppers crowded the sidewalks of his neighborhood. He cruised past, his eyes searching the parked cars and sidewalks. The diversity of the people defeated his precautions. He saw Hispanics, blacks, Anglos, Orientals. Muscled young men with perfect hair and designer jeans window-shopped in groups. Hundreds of cars took every space at the curb. Other cars double-parked. A car full of Hispanic teenagers was parked in a driveway while the driver ran into a liquor store.
On his street, Jefferson saw a thousand shadows where they could hide.
A panel truck moved into a space two addresses down from his apartment complex; the driver — a young Chicano in a windbreaker, slacks and Cuban heels — got out and saw that he had parked next to a fire hydrant. He restarted the truck and drove away. Jefferson swerved into the space. Tonight, a fifty-dollar parking ticket would be the least of his problems.
Leaving the driver-side door unlocked, he got out of the car. He did not go to his apartment. A friend's room overlooked the street and the entry to Jefferson's apartment complex. Jefferson ran up the wooden stairs to the second floor of the partitioned Victorian house.
'Who's that there?' a voice questioned when he knocked.
'Floyd.'
'Ah… say, brother. Could you come back later?'
'I got a problem. I got a serious problem.'
'This is an inconvenient time.'
'I don't care who you're screwing! This is life and death...'
The door opened. Jefferson stepped into the dim interior of the one-room apartment. The air smelled of marijuana and sweat. His friend Peter stood naked behind the door.
His ratted blond natural hairstyle clouding around the bronze tan of his face and shoulders, Peter grinned like a demon. From the double mattress on the floor, two young men looked at Jefferson.
'Want to make it a foursome?' Peter asked him.
'Hey, man. I'm hetero. How many times I got to tell you that.' Jefferson went to the window and looked across to his apartment entry.
'We won't tell your wife!' one of the young men quipped from the mattress.
Jefferson took the phone. He dialed his landlady. 'Hi, Miss Curran, this is Floyd. No, no problem with the rent. Reason I called is some friends of mine might be waiting for me. Salvadorans. Short hair. Muscles. Look like soldiers.'
'Oh… so macho,' the other young man on the mattress sighed. 'Introduce us.'
'You saw them? They left? Oh, shit.'
'I'd be disappointed, too,' Peter laughed.
'No, ma'am. I'm sorry I said that. I think I'll be gone for a few days. Talk to you later.' Jefferson broke the connection, then dialed another number. 'Hey, Prescott? Working late? Yeah, this is Floyd. We didn't go. I'll tell you why. I'm coming down to the office. The congressman's in town? I got a story for him. Stay till I get to you. There in half an hour.'
Peter introduced his lovers. 'Craig. Allan. This is Floyd Jefferson. He works for the
'You still got that riot shotgun?' Jefferson asked Peter.
'Sure do. Never know when the Moral Majority's going to go Ayatollah ape-shit.'
'I'll buy it from you.' Jefferson took out his traveler's checks. 'How much? Two hundred? Two fifty?'
'What's going on?'
'Three hundred. You can buy a new one tomorrow.'
Peter forced a laugh. 'Are you serious?'
'And a hacksaw. And all the shells you got.'
'Floyd, if you're in trouble, just take it. You don't have to pay me.'
Still naked, but his smiles and jokes gone, Peter went to the closet. He took out an old blue-steel Smith & Wesson with an eighteen-inch barrel and a three-round magazine. Returning to the bed, he checked the safety, then handed it to Jefferson. 'It's loaded and cocked. There's a round of Number Six in the chamber. Next
